


Invictus

by TheGingerAvenger



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Family, Friendship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Magic, Mentions of alcohol, Modern Era, Multi, Post-Series, flipping the bird at fate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-02 21:32:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6583351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGingerAvenger/pseuds/TheGingerAvenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After almost dying and being saved by a stranger, Arthur remembers everything about his past life. The only problem? Merlin doesn't.</p><p>In which there's confusion, accidental stalking, bar fights, near-death experiences, awkward friendships, cats, second chances, creepers being creepy, and a bunch of friends trying to fight against a fate determined to repeat itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The title is inspired by the poem Invictus by William Ernest Henley.
> 
> This story is post-series. It's not a redo of the show. There will be some similarities and mentions towards what happened throughout the series, so expect possible spoilers for the entire show.
> 
> I am not British, so some of the words and slang I use may not be right. I'll try to do my best. If I've done something wrong, please feel free to let me know and I'll do my best to fix it.

_It matters not how strait the gate,_

_How charged with punishments the scroll._

_I am the master of my fate,_

_I am the captain of my soul._

_-Invictus,_ Willaim Ernest Henley

  **~(*)~(*)~(*)~(*)~**

**~1995~**

It’s always the simple tasks that go horribly wrong. All he wanted was a sandwich, maybe some crisps, and, if he was feeling indulgent, a pie. Go into town, grab some food, head back home: it’s an easy enough task most normal humans manage daily without any kind of near-death experience.

But Merlin’s never considered himself to be normal. Which is probably why his “simple” trip into town has ended with a gun being pointed at his chest.

The alleyway feels like its own private world, nestled between two shops that closed long ago. Light from a streetlamp seeps into the alley to brush the side of the would-be robber’s face, highlighting the pinch of his lips and the desperate glint of his eyes in a sickly orange glow.

“Go away, old man.” There’s not enough fake bravado to cover the tremor in the robber’s voice, a shaky note that almost matches that of his original victim.

For a brief moment, Merlin allows his eyes to flicker over to the woman. She’s young. Though really, nowadays everyone he comes into contact with appears to be breathtakingly young. She presses herself against the dirty wall, as if hoping the bricks will swallow her whole, her fingers digging into the fabric of her purse like it’s a lifeline. She’s crying, great heaving gasps that send shudders throughout her body, and it’s that sound- so broken and pleading and scared- that dragged Merlin off his determined path to the market and sent him barreling into the alley. Every now and then, her sobs will stutter to a halt long enough for her to choke out a whisper, “ _Please_.”

Merlin pulls his gaze away from the woman after giving her what he hopes is a confident nod and turns back to the younger man. The robber’s eyes don’t seem to focus on one object, flickering from Merlin to the woman to the front of the alley and back with a nervous speed. A light sheen of sweat glistens across his forehead and his hand shakes, the pale fingers wrapped around the black metal of the gun vibrating hard enough to be noticeable even in the almost non-existent light of the alleyway.

Merlin knows he should pay more attention to the weapon that’s being pointed in the general vicinity of his heart, but it’s not the gun that sends worry twisting a knot in the Warlock’s gut. It’s the fear, so strong that it’s palpable, rolling in waves off the man.

And if there’s one thing Merlin’s learned in his long life, it’s that fear makes everyone ten times more dangerous.

Merlin holds up his hands- old and wrinkled after so much, _too much_ , time- in what he hopes is a placating move. Or at least one that will drag the robber’s attention fully away from the woman. “There’s no need to do this.” It isn’t hard to make his voice soft and gentle, it comes out that way of its own accord. There’s panic and fear and a frantic desperation swirling in the other man’s eyes. A combination Merlin’s seen far too many times, and he knows that one wrong word, one wrong tone, will send the man over the edge.

The Warlock’s plan works and the young man’s gaze rests on him and away from the woman, his face crumpling underneath the fear and worry. And then everything happens too quickly. The woman moves, jerking towards the head of the alley with a small cry that sounds too much like a sob. The man whips around and the woman crumples as the sound of a gunshot echoes between the brick walls.

Merlin jerks forward with a cry of his own, his arm outstretched towards the fallen woman, magic rushing towards his fingertips, but the man is already spinning around, gun raised.

There’s a sudden pressure on his torso, one point on his stomach and the other just a hair off center on his chest, and then he hears them. They sound like thunder; loud, sharp, two sounds that echo in his ears until they’re all he can hear.

He thinks this is silly. He’s heard gunshots before, far more times than he would like, but they’ve never sounded quite like this.

The cement feels rough and cool against his cheek. He can’t remember how he ended up on the ground, but from the ache in his stomach and chest, lying down is the best idea he’s had all night. His head throbs hard enough to make him think one of the cracks he thought was a gunshot might have actually been his head smacking against the cement. An odd, gurgling noise trickles into his ears and it takes him a moment to realize it’s the sound of him trying to breathe. He doesn’t think it’s ever been this difficult to suck air into his lungs. Maybe he should talk to Gaius about it later.

But Gaius is dead.

(And somehow that thought hurts more than the sharp agony tearing at his chest.)

The thought of his old friend steals what little remains of his breath and that’s when he realizes he’s not the only one making strange gurgling noises.

Merlin turns his head, a simple enough movement that seems to take an eternity, and sees her sprawled out on the ground just a foot or so away. Her hair is splashed around her face, her eyes wide with fear and pain. Long fingers covered in blood glint in the streetlight, her body spasming in pain.

She looks like Gwen. He’s not sure why he didn’t notice before. Maybe he didn’t want to.

Merlin holds her gaze, a wave of calm crashing over him even as he realizes there’s not enough time. Not enough time to heal himself and the woman dying beside him. Not enough time to stop the steady river of red that’s flowing out of them both. He knows it in the way his limbs feel heavy, in the way his thoughts are swirling sluggishly around in his head. There’s only time to save one of them.

And it’s not even a choice.

He stretches his hand out, a delirious part of him wondering why his fingers are covered in blood, and brushes the woman’s arm with his fingertips. His lips move, the tiny bit of air he managed to capture in his lungs escaping to fuel the words that fly crookedly from his lips, harsh and low, a jumbled series of sounds that would be gibberish to anyone who isn’t him. His eyes flash gold and he feels some of the warmth seep from his body and flow into hers.

Her gurgling slows to a stop, her eyes flutter and close, and he’s left to wait until he sees her chest rise and fall before he allows his fingertips to leave her arm.

He turns his head to stare up at the empty sky and it feels like the black expanse swallows him whole. _No mortal blade can kill me._ He knows this is true, he’s been through so many accidents that would have left any normal person, even a sorcerer, dead and yet has managed to survive. Using his magic. He wonders if he’ll survive this, if his magic will come to his aid even after he’s passed out. If it will save him.

He’s not sure he wants it to.

There’s a selfish part of him, a part that's rejoicing because maybe, _finally_ , after all these impossibly long years, he’ll get to see them again. All of them. He finally won’t be alone anymore.

 _Arthur_.

Numbness settles into his skin, weighs heavy on his bones, and he can feel the panic building inside of him, pushing back his desires, because he needs to be here for Arthur when the king comes back. He can’t fail Arthur again. He can’t.

His magic builds inside of him, growing stronger even as the blood continues to leak out and he loses his grip on his panic, on everything but the way his heart steadily slows down. It’s a powerful surge of energy, bigger than he’s felt before, and he knows he should feel exhilarated, recharged and powerful, but all he feels is tired.

For one blissful moment, he’s back at Camelot and he can see them. Arthur, the knights, Gaius, Gwen, Freya, even Morgana. All smiling and laughing. All waiting for him to reach them and he almost can. It’s close to unrecognizable, the feeling that flutters in his stomach, but for one moment, before the darkness drags him under, he’s happy.

 

**~21 years later~**

In the brief moment the woman emerges from the shadows, in the split second when the light glints off the knife clutched in her hand, Arthur realizes this is all a big mistake. He feels more aware of it than anything else. He knew it was a mistake from before he decided to take the shortcut down this alley to his favorite pub, since before he snuck out of his window, since before he dismissed a distressed looking Morgana who spent five minutes begging him to stay home that night, since the moment the idea hatched in his brain. He knew it was all a mistake.

He can feel everything; the slight tremor in his hands, the stiffness in his back, every frantic _thud_ of his heart. His breath fills and leaves his lungs in short, panting gasps and little beads of sweat roll down his face, terror tightening his throat. He tells himself it’s silly, ridiculous even, to be afraid. She’s just an old woman. He’s fought bigger and stronger before. But the fear still twists inside of him choking him because there’s something _off_ about her.

“An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a son for a son.”

She’s talking gibberish now about his father and her son, spitting the words at him fiercely, not even pausing in her rant to judge if he knows what she’s talking about. Her words seem to slide over him like water, unimportant next to the rising panic surging through him because he’s been trying to talk for the past thirty seconds but his lips won’t move. No part of his body moves no matter how hard he tries. All he can do is watch.

Her eyes are stretched wide, her thin lips twisted into a snarl, forming words that are lost underneath the roaring in his ears, the shouting of _this can_ _’t be happening_ in his head. Her hand moves and there’s a flash of silver that embeds itself deep into his chest. Again and again and again.

Her lips stretch into a smile as pain screeches across his body, steals his breath away, and highlights his vision in a harsh red.

Someone screams, whether it’s him or the woman or someone else doesn’t concern him. Arthur’s too busy trying to figure out when he started lying on the floor and since when has it ever been this difficult to breathe?

A series of _thuds_ reaches his ears. His heart? No, someone’s running towards him. He’s vaguely aware of someone falling down beside him, of a voice babbling over his head, of hands exploring his chest.

His shirt is wet and sticky. How odd.

Someone’s telling him not to die. Repeating the words over and over and over again like a broken record. An annoying, high pitched, cracking record.

A scream tears itself from his throat as pain rips through his chest again and the hand moves away. Now someone is telling him that they’re sorry.

He wants to tell them exactly what he thinks of their apology but his mind is fuzzy and the words can’t seem to make it to his lips.

Something warm fills the absence, pressing against his chest and the person is saying it again, telling him not to die, to please don’t die. In a voice that’s wavering and panicky and . . .

_Familiar._

“Please don’t die. Please don’t you dare die.”

There’s a high pitched sound in the distance, growing steadily closer, but Arthur doesn’t listen. His vision goes black as he concentrates on the voice drifting over his head and the hands pressing against his sticky chest and thinks it doesn’t even hurt. And some part of him, some long-hidden part, thinks that he’s done this whole dying thing before, once more won’t make a difference.

The voice is speaking gibberish now and a flow of warmth spreads across his body.

Funny, he always thought he’d feel cold.

_“Please.”_

It’s the last word he hears, whispered on a broken and pleading voice. The darkness doesn’t so much as claim him. He dives into it, embraces the chilling numbness with open arms, and happily falls into unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments, kudos, and bookmarks! I'm glad you guys like this little story!
> 
> I forgot to mention in the last chapter, the quote in the second section (the "An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a son for a son") comes from the first episode of Merlin.
> 
> The quotes used at the beginning of this chapter come from season 1 episode 1, season 2 episode 13, another season 2 episode 13, season 4 episode 6, and the last three from the last episode of the show.

_"_ _Wow, and how long have you been training to be a prat?"_

 _"_ _You can't address me like that."_

 _"_ _Sorry. How long have you been training to be a prat, my lord?"_

_._

_._

_._

_"I know I'm a prince so we can't be friends. But if I wasn't a prince. . ."_

_"What?"_

_"Well then, I think we'd probably get on."_

_._

_._

_._

_"_ _What are you doing?"_

 _"_ _I'm coming with you."_

 _"_ _Merlin, the chances are I'm going to die."_

 _"_ _Yeah. Yeah, you probably would if I wasn't there."_

 _"_ _Right."_

 _"_ _Do you know how many times I've had to save your royal backside?"_

 _"_ _Well, at least you got your sense of humor back."_

_._

_._

_._

_"_ _You're not going to die, Merlin. Don't be such a coward."_

 _"_ _If I do die, will you call me a hero?"_

 _"_ _Probably."_

 _"_ _But whilst I'm alive, I'm a coward."_

 _"_ _That's the way these things word, I'm afraid. You get the glory when you're not around to appreciate it."_

_._

_._

_._

_"_ _Leave me."_

_._

_"_ _I want him gone."_

_._

_"_ _Thank you."_

_._

Arthur's chest _burns_. Flames dance across his torso, stab deep into his skin, and steal his breath. He twitches, fingers splaying across rough fabric, trying to into to ground himself in the pain and darkness. The slight movement encourages the fire to flare up with new life and he can't help the strangled cry that tears from his lips. Air doesn't seem to want to enter his lungs; he has to force it past his throat in wheezing gasps and he can't remember a time when it was this difficult to breathe. He needs help. Someone needs to help him. Someone needs to put the fire out _now_.

"Merlin." For a brief second, the whispered name means nothing and then he _remembers_. The scrawny man, the neck-kerchief, the loyalty, the friendship, the bravery. Merlin will know what to do.

His eyes flutter open and the world that greets him is blurry and distorted, the colors blending together in a nauseating miasma. Panic settles a fluttery beat to his heart and the chocking sensation that grips his throat gladly joins the fire burning him alive. _Merlin, Gwen, Leon . . . anyone. . ._

The kaleidoscope of colors coalesces and sharpens into the image of someone leaning over him; a pale face, a pair of worried green eyes, a wave of long black hair.

"Morgana?" His voice, reedy and thin, barely manages to push the name past his chapped lips. Ice-like fear spreads throughout, freezing him in place. Distantly he's aware of a rapid beeping noise, the sound in pace with the frantic _thump_ of his heart, but pays it no attention because all he can see is _Morgana_ _'s face, pale and drawn, leering down at him with unadulterated hate, and her voice a twisted mockery of concern. "Fear not, dear brother. You won't die alone."_

He jerks away, the movement instinctive, and the flames dance with renewed vigor across his skin, sharp and breathtaking. He hears her shout something over his head but he can't seem to concentrate on the words. _Get away get away get away_ the steady mantra pounds in his head, blocking out all other noise, all other thoughts, until the pain in his chest becomes too much and he slips back into darkness.

* * *

Arthur wakes to a world so bled dry of color it glows. The bright white ceiling and walls burn against his eyes in a way that makes him long for the mind-numbing nothingness of a few seconds ago.

A groan- strangled and weak- escapes his dry lips. He squeezes his eyes shut, tight enough to send the colorful dots behind his eyelids into a frenzy, and tries to battle the nausea roiling inside him. His mind is a confusing warzone of images and sounds, _memories_ , colliding into each other with enough force to send his temples throbbing.

Two different timelines, two different lives, vying for prominence in his head. One second he's ten and watching his first tournament, feeling the rough wood beneath his fingers as he grips the arms of his chair and tries to make his father proud by not turning away when a man gets hit by a javelin. The next he's ten and riding a bike down the biggest hill he can find, whooping up at the sky as he soars downward. One moment he's beginning his first year of high school, stomach a writhing mass of nerves and excitement. The next he's leading his men deep into the forest in pursuit of a deadly creature. Then he's being stabbed by a stranger, an old woman with rotting teeth and too-bright eyes, and then he's being stabbed by someone he once considered a friend, even when all evidence pointed to the contrary.

 _Mordred_.

The young man's face sears itself across the surface of his mind in a way that's physically painful. Arthur jerks in shock and his eyes fly open with a strangled gasp. He pants up at the ceiling, his breaths ragged and harsh in his ears.

When his heart rate calms, he slowly turns his head to take in his surroundings: the IV bag connected to his arm, the heart monitor, the book left waiting on an empty chair. He knows without having to look at the cover that it's a collection of stories on Camelot and Arthur and the knights. It was his mother's favorite book. He remembers reading it over and over, sometimes alone and sometimes with Morgana, searching for a piece of his mother in the pages.

He frowns. Maybe that's the cause of his dreams. Maybe his familiarity with the stories has become so great that it's created an entire world in his head. Or maybe it's a byproduct of the no-doubt countless drugs coursing through his veins. Or maybe it's from the trauma of the attack, of almost dying.

He wants to believe that, latching onto each excuse, each theory, as if they're life preservers and he's about to drown. He wants to believe that everything he remembers is a lie. That his sister isn't going to betray him and try to take away everyone and everything he loves, that his father isn't going to be murdered, that one of his friends isn't going to stab him in the chest.

But all the excuses are weak and flimsy in the face of the intricate details he remembers and none of them crack the stubborn certainty forming a rock in his stomach.

He lifts a hand to touch the bandages wrapped around his chest, fingers brushing over the place where the woman stabbed him, and he knows, without a doubt, that it's the same spot where Mordred drove his sword.

Arthur closes his eyes, memories of last night, foggy and indistinct, flitting through his mind; the woman's face, the knife, the impossibility of it all. Maybe that's what's so convincing, maybe that's what makes him accept the memories as reality even though every fiber of his being begs him not to. Because he's been stabbed in that spot before. Because he felt how much blood he was losing, because he heard that other person speaking gibberish over him, a language that was both foreign and achingly familiar. And he knows that, even with the advanced medicine of this age, there was a very small chance he could have survived.

Unless, of course, magic was involved.

The sound of the door opening snags his attention and he looks over to see Morgana standing in the doorway, a cup of what can only be coffee gripped in her hand and her lips parted in a surprised gape. In the second it takes him to blink, she's moved from the door to hover beside his bed. His breath catches in his throat as he looks up at her, wary and resigned, expecting to see her gloating smirk.

But the woman above him isn't sneering down, isn't gloating over his soon-to-be death. Her lips are curled into a smile, eyes watery and rimmed in red. One shaky hand finds its way to his shoulder as the other flutters up to cover her lips and what sounds like an odd mix of a sob and a laugh escapes through her fingers.

"Arthur-I'm so glad-I thought, we all thought. . ." Her words come out jumbled and hesitant in a way that was never normal for Morgana, even when she . . . changed. Her hand drops from her lips and she narrows her eyes in a weak glare. "You're an _arse_."

Arthur's lips twitch in a small smile because her glare does nothing to hide the relief and joy shining in her eyes. And it doesn't come close to the glares she used to give him . . . never gave him? Once gave him in a past life? Gods his head _hurts_.

His eyes close again and he clenches his teeth as he tries to separate the Morgana hovering worriedly over his bed with the Morgana who spent years plotting his demise. He tries to remember that the worst thing this Morgana ever did was eat all of his snacks. It's clear that she doesn't remember, unless she's pretending. But why he remembers and she doesn't is something he doesn't know how to answer.

Merlin will know, though.

"What . . . ?" He swallows, though his mouth is too dry for it to do any good. He opens his eyes and stares at the end of the bed, at the colorful display of flowers perched on a table at the other side of the room, and not at Morgana. "What happened?"

A cup filled with ice chips materializes in front of his face and it takes him a moment to register the pale hand holding it. He grabs the cup, wincing slightly at the pain that flares in his chest, before nodding his head at Morgana in thanks.

"You were. . ." She hesitates for a second before she shoves the words out. "You were stabbed in an alley and by the time the ambulance arrived, they thought. . . with all that blood. . . you wouldn't survive."

He forces himself to grin up at her and it surprises him how easy it is. "But it looks like I didn't."

Morgana doesn't return his smile. She sinks into the seat that was dragged close to his bedside, brow furrowed. "Do you remember anything that happened? Who did this to you?"

He tips the cup, reveling in the cool sensation of the ice chips melting on his tongue, and frowns down at his cup, trying to sort through the confusing jumble of memories in his mind. "I remember an old woman stabbed me. . ." And then there was that person speaking gibberish over his head and warmth and familiarity. He feels an odd jolt in his stomach. _Dollop Head._

Morgana's voice drags him out of his thoughts. "Did she say why?"

"She said it was because Uth- Father killed her son or something like that."

Morgana gives a quick nod of her head as if she expected this answer. "Sounds like something he would do," she mutters, expression fierce she glares out the surveillance window that gives them a clear view of their father talking to some doctors outside in the hallway.

 _He_ _'s not a bad man._ Arthur wants to say that, wants to so badly that it hurts. But the words get stuck somewhere in his throat because all he can think of is Gwen almost burning alive in the kitchen and Merlin being pinned to the wall by two giant spears with his father about to joyously run him through with a sword.

He pushes back the nausea climbing up his throat and forces himself to ask. "Was I the only one found in the alley?" The hope building inside of him refuses to be quelled, no matter how hard he tries.

"No," Morgana says and a small, quick smile flits across her lips. "There was someone with you when the ambulance arrived. He probably saved your life."

Arthur suddenly finds it difficult to breathe. "Who was-"

The door swinging open cuts him off mid-sentence and in swoops Uther Pendragon, relief etched across his face. Following close on his heels are a relieved and guilty looking Leon and a harried and flustered doctor.

"My son!" Uther's cry of joy feels like a punch to the gut. The older man moves to the side of Arthur's bed with a speed that belies his age, his arms reaching out to embrace his son.

"N-no!" The doctor squeaks out, looking like telling one of the richest men in the world _no_ is the last thing he wants to do. "You shouldn't disturb him. Any sudden movements can aggravate the wound."

Uther shoots the doctor a glare that soon melts as he turns back to his son, his would-be-hug turning into a gentle pat on the shoulder. The contact still sends a twinge of pain across his chest, but Arthur swallows his wince. "I'm so glad you're okay."

Arthur smiles up at his father, a lump forming in his throat. "I am too." He coughs and moves his gaze away from his father's red eyes to Leon. The guard appears to take his glance as permission to speak.

Leon takes a step forward, eyes glued to the ground and shoulders slumped. "Sir," he pauses, jaw clenching, before taking a deep breath and looks Arthur in the eye. "I am terribly sorr-"

Arthur stops him with a flick of his hand. "None of this was your fault, Leon." He makes his voice serious and stern, willing the other man to believe him. "It was my decision to sneak out, my decision to leave you behind. Everything that happened is on me and me alone."

Leon blinks in surprise and Arthur can practically feel the shock gazes of everyone in the room. After a few second, he shifts underneath their stares, fingers clenching around the blankets, and does the only thing he remembers doing whenever he was uncomfortable; he drags the attention to Merlin. "So, I heard someone helped me?"

Uther nods his head, his hand not leaving Arthur's shoulder. "Yes, a young man was by your side when the ambulance arrived."

Beside his bed, the doctor chuckles. "The stubborn man refused to let you ride the ambulance alone. He followed you all the way to the operation room." He shakes his head. "Almost camped outside the doors."

Fondness bursts warm in Arthur's chest. That sounds like the buffoon. "Is he . . . is he here?"

Uther frowns. "I'm not sure it would be wise for you to see visitors."

Arthur tilts his head back against the pillows to meet his father's stare. "I want to see him. Please," he adds. "He saved my life."

A crease crinkles the space between Uther's eyebrows and his frown deepens, dripping disapproval. Arthur's beginning to resign himself to the thought of lurching out of bed and searching for Merlin himself when his father relents with a sigh and turns to Leon. "Go fetch the boy."

Leon nods his head and steps towards the door.

As Leon leaves the doctor steps closer to the bed and begins to ramble on about how long Arthur will need to be in the hospital and how careful he needs to be and how often he needs to take pain medication. Arthur tunes the words out, letting them become a hardly understandable flow of words, trusting that Uther and Morgana will pay attention. He focuses his attention on the door and holds his breath as Leon comes back, a person following close behind.

Arthur feels all the breath leave his lungs at the sight of the man trailing behind Leon. A mess of black hair, all arms and legs, too gangly for his own good, and blue eyes. He even has a ratty looking brown jacket that swallows him whole, just like he wore back at Camelot.

There's something off about his appearance, though, something Arthur can't quite figure out but that nags at the back of his mind.

Arthur's only vaguely aware of the doctor excusing himself and slipping out of the room. He stares at Merlin and watches as relief flickers across his face when he spots Arthur. Merlin takes a step towards the bed, an almost unconscious movement as his lips twitch into a smile, but then his gaze shifts to Uther, hovering over Arthur's bed with one hand on his arm. In an instant, Merlin's relief morphs into fear and he takes a step backward, only to bump into Leon.

Leon places a hand on Merlin's shoulder to steady him. "This is Merlin."

Merlin lifts his hand in a tiny wave, practically hunching into himself. "Hi."

Uther lifts his chin, shoulders squaring, and adopts the _I_ _'m-important_ voice he reserves for the press and other businessmen. "Thank you for saving my son," he rumbles as Morgana copies his sentiment.

Merlin's shoulder twitches in a shrug. "Oh, it's nothing," he mumbles.

"No, it's not nothing," Uther asserts. "The doctors say it's a miracle he's still alive."

Arthur catches Merlin's eyes. _I_ _'m the sorcerer._ "Yeah," he mutters, voice a mere whisper. "I bet it is."

Merlin's face pales and his gaze skitters away, jaw clenching.

Hurt and worry slash through Arthur at the fear flickering across Merlin's face. He knows the last time they saw each other wasn't the best, what with him dying and the shock of Merlin revealing his powers, and he knows he didn't react the best way but surely Merlin isn't afraid of him? Not after all this time?

Arthur struggles to sit up straighter on the bed, ignoring the spike of pain in his chest and his father's hand pressing against his shoulder. "Thank you for saving my life," Arthur says.

Merlin jerks his head in a nod, eyes flitting up to meet Arthur's before moving to stare down at his shoes. "There's no need to thank me."

"Of course there is," Morgana speaks before Arthur can and Merlin looks over at her. The worry and confusion inside of him grows when not a single hint of recognition crosses Merlin's face. Morgana's voice, soft and gentle, is so different than how she used to talk to him. "Without you, who knows what would have happened."

Merlin's head jerks in another stilted nod. It doesn't take an observant person to notice Merlin's uncomfortable with the attention. He shifts on his feet, fingers twitching at his sides, tugging at the edges of his shirt, his gaze flicking around. His body leans towards the exit, ready to send himself out into the hall at the quickest available moment. He never meets Arthur's stare.

"The boy will certainly be rewarded for his help. With anything, money, recommendations-"

"Dinner." The word passes Arthur's lips before his brain registers it, but as soon as his thoughts catch up, he agrees that it's a good plan. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see his father glancing at him in a mix of surprise and anger, but he's too busy staring at Merlin to worry about having offended Uther. The other man's head snapped towards him when he spoke, shock spelled out across his face. "I would like you to come over for dinner."

"Of course." Somewhere in the room, his father is speaking, but Arthur is too busy trying to find a way to communicate _do you remember_ via facial expressions. From the confused and increasingly alarmed look on Merlin's face, he assumes he hasn't been successful. "You will come over for dinner as soon as Arthur is better."

Merlin looks like dinner is the last thing he ever wants but under the weight of Uther's stare, Merlin nods his head in agreement. "Thanks but I, uh, I should probably be going now," he mumbles and backs up to the door. "It was. . . nice meeting you." A polite nod towards Uther and Morgana and then he's looking at Arthur, the tense politeness that tightened the corners of his lips giving way to softer relief. "And I'm glad you're okay."

Arthur speaks up before Merlin can leave, leaning forward in bed only to wince at the sharp pain in his chest. "Wait!"

Merlin pauses, his hand gripping the doorknob so hard his knuckles turn white, and looks at Arthur over his shoulder, an anxious set to the thin line of his lips.

"Have we met before?" Arthur asks and some of the confusion and desperation stabbing at him slips into his voice, tightens it into a plea.

"No."

"Are you sure?"

Merlin nods his head without any hesitation and says, "Positive" before scurrying out the door.

Arthur sinks back against his pillows, disappointment settling like lead in his bones. The firm resolution from earlier cracks like splintering wood under doubt. If Merlin, the one with all the magic, doesn't remember . . . If he doesn't know then. . . Does that mean none of it was real? Does that mean it was all just a dream?

Frustration and anger coil in his stomach. He scowls down at his hands, fisted on the white sheets, and tunes out the sound of his father droning on about press conferences. It's stupid of him, really. To think that some dream he had is reality. Stupid and pointless and so what if this Merlin looks the same as the one in his dreams? So what if his name is the same? So what if it was so vivid and real and. . .

His fingers grip the sheets tighter, bunching the fabric in his palms, and he sucks in a sharp breath between clenched teeth. It was just a dream. That's all.

He lifts his head and stares out the window that opens out to the hallway. His father's talking and he knows he should be paying attention, but listening to him drone on about interviews and meetings is the last thing Arthur wants to do. Instead, his attention draws to Merlin. He watches as Merlin gathers his things from the bench, no doubt thanking the nurse for keeping an eye on them. Merlin reaches inside his bag and gives the nurse a smile and all Arthur can think is that Merlin used to smile brighter than that.

He frowns and brushes the thought away. It's just a dream. That's all it was. A very vivid dream. A creation of his imagination. That's all.

It just felt so _real_.

It's a shock of color that stands out almost painfully against the white walls, the bright red scarf Merlin pulls out of his bag. In the few swift movements it takes to wrap the scarf securely around his neck, all the doubt in Arthur's mind about it just being a dream turns to dust.

* * *

 _Arthur Pendragon. Of all the people in the world he had to save Arthur Pendragon_.

Merlin feels jittery the entire way home, twitching and jumping at the slightest sounds the moment he bursts from the hospital doors. The suffocating sensation that's been squeezing his lungs since he talked to the police doesn't leave him, even though he's no longer surrounded by suspicious eyes watching his every move. Instead of dissipating underneath the open sky, it clings tighter to him, making each breath a thing he has to work for.

It's ridiculous to worry, he knows that. What normal person who's never been exposed to anything supernatural is going to cry magic at the first sight of some strange miracle? What are the chances that Arthur believes him to have any kind of magical abilities? But his thoughts do nothing to quell the fear stubbornly crawling up his throat.

And it doesn't help that he's heard the rumors about what Uther Pendragon does to those with magic.

Merlin keeps his head down as he speed-walks down the sidewalk, trying to keep his pace at an unsuspicious gait. He doesn't pay attention to the old buildings or the plant life, doesn't take the time to smile at the people he passes like he would on a normal day. The pedestrians take on a different light. Gone are the love-struck couples, the joking spouses, the teasing and screaming siblings, the laughing friends. In their places are suspicious, paranoid people, following him around corners, watching as he walks by, whispering words like accusations. "How is he alive? How did you save him? _Magic_ _…"_

Before he realizes it, he's sprinting. His tennis shoes smack against the pavement and the air rushing in and out of his lungs burns in his chest. He twists and turns, sliding through the crowd, and ignores the cries of anger and shouted curses aimed at him whenever he accidentally elbows someone. A fierce desire to get home, to get somewhere safe and away from everyone else, urges him forward, urges him to ignore those around him, whether they're gaping at him in surprise or screaming at him in anger.

He turns the corner and slams into something too soft to be a wall. The force of the impact sends him sprawling back onto the concrete. He winces as his elbows connect with the sidewalk with a _crack_ and hears a loud curse as whoever he ran into falls to the ground as well. Merlin tries to get up quickly, despite the pain in his elbows and back, because, while the person may not have felt hard enough to be a wall, they were pretty close.

He makes it to his feet, an apology poised on the tip of his tongue, but the other man beats him to it.

"Where were you headed in such a hurry?"

Merlin glances up to see a man sitting just a few feet away from him, seemingly unfazed by his fall, almost like random strangers barreling into him is a daily occurrence. A tangle of brown hair frames a wide smile and it takes Merlin a moment to realize the man is laughing. "No one's taken me by surprise like that in ages."

"Sorry," Merlin mutters.

The man waves a dismissive hand. "It's no problem, mate. Nothing a drink can't fix." He pauses and then grins. "Or maybe a few drinks."

Merlin glances over his shoulder, only half paying attention to the words coming out of the other man's mouth. His eyes land on a policeman who's determinedly heading in their direction and panic squeezes the air out of his lungs.

"What were you running away from, anyway? The police? Aliens? A crazy ex?"

Merlin turns back around to see the man gazing at him with friendly curiosity. "Yes," he says distractedly. "I've gotta go. Sorry again!" And he's running past the man and down the street.

"So, you're not going to buy me a drink?" The man shouts after him but Merlin's already barreling around the corner.

He makes it the few blocks to his apartment building without knocking anyone else over. He doesn't bother to slow his pace as he pushes the front doors open and rushes into the lobby, the manager only giving him an unconcerned stare from behind the desk. He slips through the door leading to the stairs, just barely remembering to give Miss Benson a short wave as the old lady waits for the painfully slow lift. He races up the flights of stairs, taking two at a time, until he reaches his floor, already pulling the door key out of his pocket. His hands are shaking so badly that it takes a few precious seconds to open the door, a few seconds that his neighbor takes to peek his head out of the door to stare at him.

When he's safely back in his apartment, Merlin leans against the door and tries to slow his beating heart. It takes a few seconds, punctuated by his gasping loudly, before embarrassment burns his cheeks. What was he thinking freaking out like that? And knocking that man other and leaving without even offering to help him up?

After a few minutes, he takes a deep breath and releases it in a loud sigh, shoulders slumping. His hands are still shaking, a sensation that seems to resonate throughout his entire body and he's struck with wondering how long it's been since he's last had a good meal and a decent night's sleep. Far too long.

He opens his eyes and pushes himself off the door, running a hand through his hair as he heads towards the kitchen. "Gaius!" He calls out.

He opens the fridge as his cat jumps onto the counter. The grey tom stares at him with solemn green eyes, observing the process of Merlin fixing himself a glass of water. The cool liquid soothes Merlin's dry throat as he takes a swig and pats his cat on the head. "You won't believe the day I've had, Gaius."

He moves to plop himself down on his ripped couch, every part of his body suddenly feeling like it's been filled with cement. Gaius stares at him for a moment before jumping down from the counter and moving to the part of the couch known as his own cushion.

Merlin stares at the cup of water clutched in his hands. The events of the past few hours play through his mind. He can't even begin to grasp what happened. He doesn't regret his decision to heal Arthur, given the chance he would do it again, he just never expected-

_"Dinner."_

A groan shoves its way past his lips and Merlin closes his eyes, sinking in his chair. Dinner. With Arthur and the rest of his family. Including his heavily armed guards and scary, overbearing, magic-hating father. Merlin's eyes open again and he stares up at the ceiling. Maybe he can pretend to come down with some deadly illness. Or make everyone believe that he moved out of town. Or got hit by a bus.

He stands up and places the cup on the counter, moving towards his small bedroom. The bed releases a strained groan when he flops onto it and he reaches under to pull out an old looking book. He runs his hands over the worn cover, feeling the dips and curves of the design etched across the front, and absentmindedly begins to flip through the pages.

He's not really sure why he picked the book up. It's not like he's actually looking for a spell to get him out of going to dinner at Arthur's place- though it would be nice. It's just, the feel of the ancient pages, seeing the scrawl of magic language across the page, reading about spells that can transform a person, help you read someone's mind, help you call on fire or lightening, or grow a strawberry in your hand, seem more effective at calming his frayed nerves than a glass of water.

Besides, he tells himself as he plops back onto the bed, Arthur'll probably forget about the whole dinner thing anyway.


End file.
